As They Drove Away . . .
Spring, 2001

I suppose it's been about four years now since I first had the pleasure of meeting Helen Weaver of eastern Kentucky.  She was a sweet and soft-spoken gray-haired widowed, retired schoolteacher in her early 80s who lived alone with her seven precious babies--six young mixed-breed white and tan dogs (three female and three male) and the mother dog.  It seems that somewhere along the way, several years before, Helen had adopted the unwanted stray mother dog and her litter and given them a home.  Now, though, as Helen's age began to impair her ability to get around and do the things that but a few years earlier were so simple, it was decided by a man that had been designated her "guardian" (as she no longer had any living relatives to help care for her) that perhaps it was best that the "troublesome" dogs be removed from her residence when she was gone to town and taken to the local dog pound.  However, when Helen returned home and discovered her "family" missing, she threw a fit.  Helen wouldn't hear of her "kids" being taken from her and placed in a shelter where death was the likely outcome for her precious babies; they were immediately brought back home.  It was just after this happened that a concerned and sympathetic social worker contacted the "care-for-life, no-kill" Trixie Foundation about us accepting the seven beloved dogs.  Even though her age and the callous indifference of her "guardian" prevented Helen from determining her own personal fate, she was absolutely resolved that the care of her unprotected babies take precedence over even her own welfare--and happiness.  The elderly woman was determined to remain steadfastly loyal and protective of the only family that she had left in the world.  At this point, it was decided that perhaps the best thing to do was for everyone to "get together" and allow me the opportunity to meet both Helen and the dogs.  I'll never forget our first encounter--it was at Helen's home.  After riding along with the guardian over to her house, I got out of the vehicle and walked over to where Helen stood.  She was so sweet and kind and fragile--my heart swelled at her tenderness.  And what she then said to me has probably been the nicest thing that anyone has ever said to me before.  She told me that just by looking into my eyes and talking to me but for a few moments, that she knew her precious babies would be well taken care of a loved.  I then told Helen that, although I could never, ever take her place, I would always do my very best to take the best care of her "kids" that I could.  In just another few minutes, Helen introduced us to her "family" by opening her kitchen door and allowing the six dogs inside the house to come outside and into the fenced-in backyard.  Because one of the dogs had escaped the confines of the fenced enclosure several months earlier, he ran around outside the fence, yipping and yapping, as were the dogs on the inside.  Because the dogs had never before been around people other than Helen, they were very protective; the hair on their backs bristled and stood on end--I knew better than to try to pet any of them.  It was then decided that the "guardian" and I would leave and go back to his office and work out the details of the placement.  As The Trixie Foundation is a "care-for-life facility"--for the most part, we normally ask that whoever asks us to accept "their" pet also help us with the cost of its upkeep by helping us financially.  Of course, this realistic philosophy did not apply to the other 195 puppies and dogs here that we personally rescued and assumed the cost of ourselves--out of a total of 209.  As the social worker had already told me before that Helen was more than willing and able to help financially, I informed the guardian that, since several national humane societies and organizations in the United States estimated the cost of one small-to-medium sized dog over its lifetime to be as much as $5000--and that one large dog could cost $8000 or more (and, as we would probably be taking care of all of these dogs for another six, seven, or maybe even eight years), it was my belief that asking for a tax-deductible contribution of $10000 for all seven medium-sized dogs was not necessarily that much, considering all the yet-to-be-incurred future expenses:  construction of a place for them to live, yearly vaccinations, and possible needed medical attention, food, day-to-day care, etc.  You should have heard the guardian "rant and rave" at the quoted figure; he just could not believe my audacity.  To make a long story short, we finally reached an agreement of less than $1200 per dog.  You see, in reality, what the real problem here was not that Helen didn't have any money (I found out later from a newspaper reporter who personally knew her, that actually she was quite "well-to-do"); the real problem was that the guardian (because his mother had been Helen's lifelong friend before she died) was going to inherit all of Helen's estate--and he wanted all of the money.  Helen's "peace-of-mind" and the "welfare" of the dogs seemed to me to mean little to him.  As it subsequently transpired, the transition process took place the following week.  It was decided that Helen would open the kitchen door and let the dogs out into the open yard for one last time--and then she would leave the premises; I've often wondered about that particular moment and what went through her mind.  As I had already arranged for the dogs to be tranquilized prior to their being moved, they were later brought to The Trixie Foundation.  Just a few days later, the "guardian" made a trip out to our facility to see for himself that the dogs had truly been transferred--and then gave us a check.  About one month later, I received a call from the "guardian's" office.  He informed me that Helen wanted to come and see her babies--especially the smallest one of the litter who was her favorite.  As Helen had earlier told me, the dogs didn't have specific names--I had named the little dog Abraham.  The designated day finally came, and when the brand-new $40000 "suburban utility vehicle" pulled up in front of the compound, I went out to greet them.  I could tell that this meant so very much to Helen by her quiet, subdued demeanor and grin.  It was then that the "guardian" stated that they only had a couple of minutes to spend as he had a business to run.  It was also then that I really saw the man for the very first time--with his hands "dripping" with golden rings laden with diamonds and an air of self-importance that was obviously intended to let everyone know that only his will and personal contentment mattered.  He then told me to go inside and get little Abraham and bring him outside to where Helen could see him.  As I went inside to get the small snow-white dog, I thought to myself on the way back about how much this friendly sweet dog reminded me of Helen's own gentleness.  As I prepared to step down from the porch and carry Abraham over to where Helen could pet him and love on him, the "guardian" threw his hand up in the air and with a single wave let me know "that was enough"--the visit was over, and that it was now time for them to leave.  I still remember standing there, holding Abraham just as he glimpsed his "mom"--and she glimpsed him.

And here it is a few years later--and I have never, ever heard from Helen since--not her "guardian."  And sometimes late at night as I sit and hold little Abraham in my lap, I close my eyes and tears of sadness well up--and I think back upon that chilly, overcast fall day, and the broken-hearted look on that pitiful old woman's haggard face--as they drove away. . . .

--Randy Skaggs, Founder